


Still Life

by parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea/pseuds/parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea
Summary: As much as people associate Harry and George with flying sparks and glorious demonstrations of magic, their true natures are much more subdued.Harry hadn’t been lying when he’d told Mrs. Weasley, “I like a quiet life, you know me.”Perhaps the real place they shine is in the dark, in soft murmurs, contemplative and comfortable silences; that’s where they find home, and they're finding it with each other, learning to be grateful, even within grief, for the happinesses when they come.Left with the after images; after the dust settles, and the glittering flashes of fame relocate to other company, those energised and unblemished enough to receive them, they must learn to love what is mortal.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Lee Jordan/Fred Weasley (mentioned), Harry Potter/George Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84





	1. Bangs and Whimpers

Fire’s work is never quite done. George’s life used to be filled with fireworks, with bells and whistles; now the decorum, the dignity, the delight has been snuffed from them. He is no longer one of a pair. No longer does he have the reliable company of someone who understood him completely, without effort. Where everywhere he had gone with the association of mischief, now he walks in death’s shadow. He thinks of Peter Pan and imagines Fred is the shadow his body casts on the wall of their room…talks to him, keeps him up to date on all the happenings of the Burrow and their shop…eventually the light dims, and each nightfall brings another small death to the pile building in his core. He doesn’t think but he thinks about death for days…weeks on end. Numbness, the keen awareness of loss, of distance - Fred had always been right there; where was he? Of missing, feeling incomplete, and lost. 

George conjures up a portable blue flame and watches as it slowly slides across the floor of their room, screams in frustration, jumping on it, wanting it to spread, to burn, to engulf his body. He stands stock still, his eyes closed, trying to tell if warmth was spreading - this infuriating fire; it’s child’s play! He crumples to the floor, the feeble charm having gone out, and curls up into a ball, winding himself as tightly as possible, howling silently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to post one chapter a day; the last chapter will be posted on Fred and George's birthday.  
> Tomorrow is Vincent Van Gogh's 167th birthday and the next chapter will feature two wizards visiting an art museum...


	2. Mirror Mirage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> museums, mirrors, and much needed tears

George avoids looking in mirrors after Fred’s death; he can’t bring himself to see his visage reflected, knowing that his other half is gone. Even with one ear…though he’s able to muster some gratitude sometimes for the fact that he had lost it before Fred - at least they’d gotten some jokes in - at least he knew how Fred thought about their no longer being mirror images of each other.

Fred had not been, by any estimation, the only source of love in George's life, but the love between them had been specific and irreplaceable, and he found himself now left with all his love for Fred going into the ether, unknown, unanswered; a life-long conversation made suddenly and irreversibly one-sided.

People would whisper, after the war, their voices dripping with insincere sympathy (Fred and George had always been a spectacle, and now George’s grief was on display; a circus exhibit for people to discuss and move on from, leaving him with the wreckage…sometimes he imagines cursing the remaining ear off, shutting off the voices, but then, he’d be left with only his thoughts and memories in his head and he didn’t think he could bear that), “He lost a twin, that one. How tragic; he’ll never be whole again.”

George hears Fred’s name on his mother’s lips every once in a while - gradually he becomes like Percy was to the family during the windup to the war: a name carefully avoided around certain members - with Percy it had been his parents, with Fred, now, it was him. He agreed with those whispers of strangers; he didn’t feel whole, and didn’t want to.

But months went by, and he found himself lost as to how to feel like a person again, whole or not. He was grateful to Harry, who, even if he didn’t always know how to talk about Fred with him, recognised the importance of doing so, of not skirting the topic.

One day Harry told him there was someplace he wanted to visit with him, and George said alright, and Harry Apparated them to Trafalgar Square. Harry led them through the National Gallery, George feeling numb but steadily more alert as his heart beat faster from the excursion - he hadn’t left the Burrow for weeks. He looked around with growing appreciation and amazement; he’d never been to an art museum before - it felt strangely bold, daring; its very existence declaring that human emotion and expression was something to be celebrated, instead of shut away or hidden. Harry seemed to have a particular destination in mind, and finally stopped in front of an entrance to an exhibit, the name Vincent Van Gogh on the wall.

“This is what you wanted to show me?” George asked, intrigued.

Harry nodded, looking slightly apprehensive, but trying for a reassuring smile.

“Yeah. Have you heard of him?”

“The name sounds familiar. I’ve probably seen some of his work and not known it was by him.”

“Shall we?” Harry asked.

“After you,” George replied, gesturing to the exhibit.

Harry smiled and walked ahead of him into the exhibit, and George followed.

Catching sight of what he gathered to be self-portraits, he exclaimed, “I didn’t know he was ginger!”

Harry looked at him with a curious expression, like nervous anticipation, and George approached one, in which Van Gogh had portrayed himself with a bandage over one side of his face.

“Was there…what - happened?”

“He…cut off one of his ears.”

George felt the blood rush and pound in his head as he looked back at the painting and understood.

“He-” his voice thick and eyes pricking, he began to shake and Harry murmured, “May I…?” offering his arm and George nodded.

With Harry’s arm around his waist, he took a shuddering breath and nodded, steering them towards the next painting.

They spent time with each painting in the gallery, lingering longer at certain ones. They both felt an appreciative fascination for _The Night Café_.

“I like how the clock looks like it’s going to float out into the sky.”

“It’s going to become the moon.”

“Oh, I love that!” Harry breathed, gazing at him with delight and George had to look away from Harry’s face to regain composure.

Harry returned his eyes to the painting and added, pointing, “This man, he’s the main character. I mean, it’s from his perspective, right? Everyone else is painted in less detail.”

“Plus he’s the only one looking at us.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

George steeled himself to share the first impression he had gotten.

“I think he’s lonely.”

Harry hummed and nodded.

“I think so too.”

George breathed out and added, “He’s lonely, and he doesn’t notice everyone else; well, he does, but they’re in his peripheral vision, in his peripheral mind-”

“Oh, that’s good.”

George smiled and continued, bolstered.

“It’s late and he has no one to share his home-” George found his throat seize up suddenly and was unable to continue.

They stood gazing at the painting in silence for a while before moving on to the next.

⋅⋆✦⋆⋅

George sat on the floor of the room he and Fred had shared, where they had secretly made products for their shop…it felt like a lifetime ago. Ron had very kindly offered to run Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes for as long as George was unable to, an undertaking in which Lee and Angelina had joined, so the shop was in capable hands.

George hadn’t touched any of their products in months, but now he slowly wound an Extendable Ears around his head, paused, his face blank, thinking of strangulation, and stopped winding the cord. He looped one ear around his existing one and tilted his head to the side, placing the other over the hole. His mind wandered away from him, and when he settled back into the front of his consciousness, he found Harry standing at the end of the room, gazing out the window. He opened his mouth to speak, wondering why his neck felt so stiff, then realised and straightened up, wincing as his bones cracked. Harry turned at the sound and smiled at George, making his way across the room to sit down in front of him.

“Have you been here very long?”

“No. For all your extra ears, you didn’t hear me come in,” Harry said, attempting lightness, but George could still detect the slight strain to his voice.

“Were you banging pots and pans and moaning like our ghoul?” he responded mildly.

Harry bowed his his head in a nod, and looked at George, his lips parted slightly, eyes expressing awkward commiseration.

“Nothing short of a riot can bring me out of a trance when I’m in one.”

“Is the ghoul still wearing Ron’s pajamas?”

“Oh, yeah. He loves them, refuses to take them off. Mould has already started growing on them.”

Harry laughed. George looked at him, slowly returning to his surroundings, connecting to the feel of his body on the floor as he stretched.

“You know the mirror who talks?” George whispered conspiratorially.

“Yeah?”

“I was sitting here the other day when she said, out of nowhere, that she knew I was there; she’d seen me pass by, and I should spend more time with her. She said if I was just going to sit in a room by myself all day I might as well talk to someone, and it might as well be her since she’s got nowhere else to be.”

“Is she like a painting? Can she travel to other mirrors in the house or is she attached only to that one?”

“Yeah…since she’s disembodied, I think she’s solely a part of that mirror. I don’t actually know how it works,” he admitted. “I’m just guessing.”

“You could ask me, you know!” A boisterous voice filled the room and George and Harry started, Harry laughing as he stood up, offering a hand to help George to his feet, and walked over to the mirror by the door.

“Hair’s still untamable, I see,” the mirror remarked, as Harry stepped in front of it.

Harry grinned and nodded, unabashed. George stood a few feet away, showing his willingness (albeit reluctant) to join Harry, while avoiding showing his face to the mirror.

“So, how do you, er…how did you come to be…in this mirror?” Harry asked.

“I’m not in the mirror, I’m a part of it. Well. Myself is tied to it, anyway, so far as I can tell, as I’ve never been able to move as long as I’ve been anything. I was here when they were building this room - it’s very irritating having to just listen for things all the time, incidentally, and no one willing to spend some good quality time with you - though it’s lucky for me that there are so many people in this house - ‘cept when you lot are at Hogwarts most of the year and all I have to hear are Molly and Arthur when they’re close by, and the ghoul when he’s being particularly loud.”

“You saw when my parents built this room?” George asked, moving to stand next to Harry, who smiled at him and then looked back at the mirror, interested in her answer.

“Oh, yeah. The first memory I have is of Arthur’s face — very focused and concentrated, and then the next moment I could hear. His voice, casting spells, was the first thing I ever heard. I remember Molly came in and he stopped paying me attention - but he visited me later, asked if there was anything I wanted to be called - I didn’t know anything about names yet…I’ve learned a lot since then. Like expressions! Not just facial ones, either. I’m talking the ones your mother uses all the time. Y’know the one, it takes a village? Well, the size this family is, the lot of you are a village all your own!”

“Do you…sleep, at all?” Harry asked.

“Is that your way of telling me to go back to keeping to myself?” the mirror responded cheekily.

“No,” Harry responded hastily, but she chuckled.

“I do, right enough, or I come in and out of bein’ aware of things from time to time, when the house is ‘specially quiet for too long and I get bored.”

“Do you ever feel trapped?” George asked quietly.

“You mean, ‘cause I’m stuck in one place all the time?”

George nodded, apprehensive.

“Nah. I’ve never known anythin’ else. I’m not interested in knowing anything outside of this family, anyway.”

George wondered morosely what she would do when all of them were dead, and the thought must have shown clearly on his face, or perhaps she understood him well, because she added, “I can’t be sure, but I know what I feel, and it feels like I’m connected to the life force of this house, which is directly tied to the life force of your family’s magic. I reckon when the last Weasley dies, I will too, insofar as I’m alive at all.”

George nodded, his throat tight.

“But that’s nothing to fret about. As I said, I’m only interested in knowing this family. I’ll have nothing to interest me when you’re all gone.”

“Would you…would you be offended if Harry and I were to talk, for a bit?”

“Fed up with my company already, are we? Well, that’s fine. This has been the longest conversation I’ve had in quite a while - you lot need to brush up on your mirror-side manner! But go on, then. I’m glad you’re talking again, George. I missed your voice.”

George cleared his throat and muttered, “Thank you.”

“I’m going to, uh…cast a muffling charm, so we can…”

“Yes, alright - I don’t personally understand why people seem to value this, whatchamacallit, privacy thing, but do whatever pleases ya. It’s all the same to me. Well, point of fact, it isn’t, but that’s neither here nor there. Well, strictly speaking, it’s here, but-”

George eased away and beckoned Harry, and they tiptoed back to the center of the room where they sat back down on the floor, Harry murmuring, “Muffliato” which rippled out and formed a sort of shield around them, sheltering them in a pocket of their own sound. It was odd, having your voice bounce back after you spoke, so quickly that the echo was felt rather than heard.

“I always kind of assumed that she was some sort of mirror-specific poltergeist, and I still think that’s partly true, but what she said about my dad made me think…maybe he gave her form, substance, somehow.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me at all if that was the case, which I think it probably is. Your dad has a knack for bringing things to life. You know, I’m pretty sure your Ford Anglia is still running wild in the Forbidden Forest.”

A laugh startled out of George as he was temporarily awestruck, contemplating his father and the reach of his power.

“That car developed a personality, just like this mirror,” Harry said, a monumental significance made simple and accepted by way of calm observation.

George nodded, because nothing could be said in response to honour the incredible nature of that fact, and glanced at Harry before looking down at his crossed legs. Harry began, hesitantly, “What you said before, about the mirror asking you to spend more time with her…I’m guessing you haven’t spent much time in front of mirrors lately.”

George squeezed his eyes shut and breathed out, nodding his admission of this private truth.

“There was a point where I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror, too, you know.”

George looked at Harry, wide eyed, silently willing him to continue, to explain, and he did.

“All I’d see was what other people saw - an orphan, the spitting image of his father with his mother’s eyes, and a scar to mark their sacrifice. I couldn’t see me for everyone else’s views of me; I didn’t know how I could be anything other than someone left behind, in the shadow of my own legacy and reputation - all that fame gives a warped perspective of personhood. You’re simultaneously more and less than a person to everyone, even to people who really know you. And eventually, you, well, I, at least, found it difficult knowing who I was. It’s confusing, when there’s all these opinions about you floating around - you start to think, well, who am I to think they’re wrong about me? Who am I, anyway? That took me the longest to figure out. I’m still figuring it out. But that’s also ‘cause I’m young.”

A tear slid down his cheek and he choked out, “I always admired you and Fred for knowing yourselves so well. You knew what you wanted out of life, you knew your strengths and your friends and family…it’s so, so very wrong that Fred died so young-” he gasped, crying in earnest now but determined to get the words out, “-but at least he knew who he was. He - knew how much l-love he had in his life.”

George hugged Harry and they cried together, feeling each other’s shuddering breaths gradually even and slow. They eventually released each other and sat, a silence stretching and settling comfortably between them. Presently, Harry spoke again.

“I’ve been thinking…at the shop, it might be a good idea to offer services for people who are mourning - like suggesting counseling services, Muggle and magical, and just let people know that they don’t have to feel guilty about experiencing happiness after someone they love dies. There’s a greater need for that right now, but…I think it’s important to have all the time.”

George felt his face heating up. Fresh tears made their way down his cheeks as he said, voice shaking, and staring at his knees, “C-counseling?”

Luckily, Harry understood what he was asking.

“Yeah; I’ve noticed it doesn’t seem to be all that common within magical communities in Britain, but there are lots of counselors in Muggle communities, and the ones I was suggesting referring to for any customers who are interested in seeking help offer guidance in their mourning process would be grief counselors, who specifically help people process their grief. Hermione told me all about this stuff; it’s pretty incredible. Well, I think it is, anyway.”

George’s heart picked up pace as he considered Harry’s words. He’d been feeling so lost and uncertain in the aftermath of the war, not knowing how to process Fred’s death. None of his family or friends seemed to know what to say to him about it; he’d isolated himself extensively, and knowing that there were professionals who he could talk to without fear of judgment or personally invested empathy made him feel hopeful. But then his face fell.

“Are their rates terribly expensive?”

“They differ from person to person, and there are loads who work with people to charge what they can afford to pay.”

George hadn’t known whether he wanted to ever return to running the shop; it seemed wrong for him without Fred, but they had both had that dream - sharing it with each other had made it easier to make it come true. The dream hadn’t died with Fred. If anything, keeping the dream alive felt a fitting tribute to him. George nodded, and allowed himself to hold on to the hopeful feeling that was beginning to build in his chest.

“When I go back to the shop-” he paused to laugh a bit at the excitement on Harry’s face “Yes, I’m thinking of going back, but I’m still not sure when I will - but when I do, would you like to join me?”

“Working at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes?” Harry looked taken aback. “I mean, I know that it probably won’t always be in your family-”

George cringed reflexively.

“I just mean-! You know, if it goes on, which it probably will, eventually…”

“You’re right, Harry. I know. It just feels…weird, thinking of it being run outside the family.”

“Well, exactly. I’d love to work in it with you, but-”

“You are _one hundred percent_ a part of this family, Harry. You have to know that.” George leaned forward and stared at Harry, adding, with playful intensity, “It’s very important."

Harry laughed and George didn’t move away, found himself staring at Harry’s mouth and eyelashes and cheeks and hair, wanted to kiss all of him, and he felt giddy with the relief of it, of wanting, and not being racked with guilt for it, of feeling soft and warm again.

Harry continued his protest half-heartedly, voice shaking slightly, and George wanted to kiss his throat, and collar bones, and shoulders -

“I can understand Lee and Angelina, of course - they’re honourary Weasleys-”

“Dating a Weasley is not the only way into this family, which I reckon you know, but…” his heart beating faster, his face still inches away from Harry’s open countenance, George whispered, “feel free to date me, if that’d make you feel better.”

Harry smiled and leaned forward, closing the short distance between them. “I really think it would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to Vincent Van Gogh! I don't know if The Night Café has ever been housed by The National Gallery, but they have many of Van Gogh's works, so let's pretend that it has. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Tomorrow will see our protagonist venturing into a certain forest...


	3. Sticks and Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lost and found in the Forbidden Forest

George ruminated on Harry’s supposition that the Ford Anglia his father had enchanted could still be found in the forest on the grounds of Hogwarts, and decided to visit one night to see. He Apparated to a point outside Hogwarts and walked onto the grounds, a Lumos charm lighting his way. He stopped when he reached the edge of the forest and breathed in the quiet and darkness of the night. It was strange, how the rustling of the wind and stirrings of life in the trees sounded so…peaceful, when this forest was feared by so many. He and Fred had found amusement their first year in making like they were going to saunter right into it, and Hagrid would come running out from his cabin to stop them. It had been a short-lived game, as Hagrid changed tactics, realising that they had no intention of actually entering, and pretended to give them his blessing.

George sighed. No lights were on in Hagrid’s cabin; he must have retired for the night. There was no one there to have any opinion about what George did, and besides. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

He walked slowly into the dark shelter of trees, paused, and then decided, feeling vaguely like a sleepwalker, to walk until he found the car.

Not a minute had passed before the car came rumbling up to greet him, opening a door in invitation. George ducked his head and eased into the passenger seat, leaning his head back as the car shut the door and started moving slowly through the forest. The ride was bumpy as the car maneuvered over roots and detritus, life and death that fed life that fed death…the car seemed to hit an obstacle, sliding back, straining to move forward, falling back again, and then stilled. George opened his eyes to see what had happened and his heart jumped suddenly, seeming to leave his body as the partially transparent figure of Fred drifted through the door and sat down at the driver’s seat.

George stared, tears rapidly obscuring his vision, as the Fred-figure looked at him, smiling sadly.

“Hi, George.”

“You’re not Fred.”

“I’m his memories, so as much as memories make a person, I am him.”

“Are…are you a ghost?”

“No. I didn’t want to. Not without you. I’m waiting, in an in-between place until you arrive.”

A starling thought occurred to George, and it spilled out of him franticly.

“We won’t match any more, by the time I die! I can - here, right now, I can have the car run me over and I can join you!”

Fred jumped and stretched his arms out to George, saying, “No! George, first of all, the car would never do that, even if you asked. Not least because it’s not what I want. I want you to live a full life, George, as full of happiness as you can manage, and when you’ve done that, then I will be happy to see you again. We will always match, even if you’re an old man and I’m twenty. Don’t worry about me, Georgie,” he said as George’s eyes filled anew with tears. “Time doesn’t exist here - it’s not a hardship to wait. Just please live your life, for me. For yourself. Can you do that?”

George nodded slowly, his head and heart aching.

“H-how are you…here? Like this?”

“I’m not sure. It’s the first time I’ve been brought back in any capacity since I died…I’m still in the waiting place, but I’m also here…but the part of me that’s here feels connected to something close by.”

“What, you mean like, an object? Something physical brought you here?”

“Yes. I can’t tell what it is, but it feels…like power concentrated in a very small space. Whatever it is, I’m guessing it’s small.”

George scrambled out of the car and fell to his side, searching the space around them fervently for something that might hold the answer. Remembering suddenly that the car had run something over right before Fred had appeared, George checked the tires, and - there, behind the front left wheel - a jet black stone, cut in a very angular, precise pattern, with a symbol scratched onto one side; a circle within a triangle, intersected by a line. Returning to his seat, he showed the stone to Fred.

“I think this is it.”

“Yes. I can feel the connection stronger now. That’s what brought me here.”

There’s silence, and George sits with all the pain, and anguish, and sorrow that had been steadily filling him since Fred’s death, and knew, somehow, that he had reached his brink, he was full to his capacity, and the natural progression was for it to gradually ease. He felt a half determined, half resigned sense of acceptance that he would experience relief, and not try to resist it, as he had been bent on doing. He was going to heal, and that was alright.

“How long do you want to stay?”

“As long as you want me to. Where is this?”

“The Forbidden Forest.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“What for?”

“For facing this bravely. For looking for meaning. For just…going on. I’ve always been so proud to be your brother. I love you.”

“I love you!” George cried, some of the tightness in his chest releasing as he expressed what he hadn’t said nearly as many times as he wished he had when they were both alive.

“I have an idea. Tell me what you think of it."

George nodded.

“We stay here, in the car, in the forest, for the night, and then when the morning comes, we say goodbye, and you send me back.”

“How do I do that?”

George was asking in more than one way, and Fred, as always, understood.

“You let me go. That’s all you have to do. I know it’s hard, but you’ve done such a great job already. We’ll stay here tonight, and then in the morning, you’ll let me go. It’s not abandonment, George. It’s a promise, to yourself and to me, that you’ll live your life.”

George drew a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded.

“Okay.”

They spent most of the night reminiscing, focusing on all the joyful experiences they had shared. Fred said he was glad Percy had come around. George still didn’t know to what extent this was real, but he so wanted to know how Fred felt about his dating Harry, and since he was suspending his disbelief, as well as wanting to believe it was him, he decided to ask.

“Hey…there’s something I’d like to tell you.”

“Okay.”

“I…I’m dating someone. Just started.”

“That’s great! Do they make you happy?”

George smiled. 

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m happy for you. Is it someone I know?”

“Yeah, it is. Harry."

Fred’s smile grew impossibly wide and he embraced George. The hug felt like a balm on his soul.

“That is so, so wonderful George. Thank you for telling me.”

As much as he tried to stay awake, at some point sleep overtook him, and when George woke to light streaming in through the trees, it took him a moment to remember what had happened. When it came back to him he panicked, thinking it had all been a dream, but then Fred was there, telling him he was so glad they had talked, and it was time to say goodbye. George hadn’t released his hold on the black stone since retrieving it from behind the tire. Fred walked out into a small clearing near the edge of the forest. They hugged one last time and George closed his eyes and let the stone fall from his fingers to the ground. When he opened his eyes again, Fred was gone.

He stayed in the forest, shadows moving gradually around him, and eventually Apparated home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Healing from the pain of loss doesn't mean that mourning is over. It just means that the keen initial reaction has passed, and the average of days to come will be filled with grief which is easier to sit with, a quiet background conversation which you might tune in to from time to time. Processing death is complicated and difficult, regardless of one's relationship to the deceased. I hope, whatever your experience with grief and mourning might be or become, you will give yourself permission to feel however you feel, and try not to worry about it not being enough or right. There is no correct timeline for grieving. No matter how you process grief, as long as you try not to hurt yourself or others (which can be a challenge, but it will help to heal, and yes, you will feel better, and no, that is not selfish; you deserve to live while you’re alive), it’s ok. If you’re able to laugh and feel joy even the same day, that does not invalidate or cheapen your grief. You are allowed to be. So please try. Life is an exercise in loving what is mortal.


	4. B e t w e e n

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the past making presents of our time

In the days following the forest, George realised that he’d received the approval which had mattered most to him, and he was no longer worried about how the rest of his family might react to the news that he and Harry were dating.

He and Harry stood in the kitchen helping Mrs. Weasley and George kissed Harry gently, because he didn’t want to keep their relationship secret any longer. George had told Harry he was ready to tell the other Weasleys, but the plan had been to sit them down, not spontaneously kiss in front of them. Molly clapped a hand over her mouth, quickly moving it over her heart to show that she was smiling, and gazed at George, her eyes shining.

“Mum,” George said, his voice calm while his heart rate sped up. “Harry and I are dating.”  
“Oh, George!” she cried, rushing up and hugging him tightly. He buried his face in her shoulder and smiled at her as she released him, wiping her eyes as she went to hug Harry.  
“How long has this been-?”  
“A few weeks.”  
“Oh, I’m so happy, you don’t know how happy this makes me - I’m just so glad that you’re letting happiness into your life again, Georgie, and Harry, well, you’ve always been an honourary member of the family, but this just makes it all the more official!”  
“Yes, thanks Mum,” George mumbled, exchanging an embarrassed grin with Harry, as they both recalled the conversation that had led to their first kiss.

“What’s happened? I feel like I missed something,” exclaimed Ginny as she entered the kitchen.  
“George and-! Well, I’ll let you tell her, dear, it’s your news to share!”  
George smiled nervously and turned to Ginny, who was smiling expectantly.  
“Harry and I, uh, we’re dating.”  
There was a beat of silence, and then Ginny rushed forward to capture George in a crushing hug. She released him with an excited cry of, “Wait! Wait there, just a moment, I have something I want to give you and Harry!”

She dashed off up the stairs and the three of them exchanged surprised looks and giddy laughter. She returned, panting, a short while later, holding something small and white in her hands. Smoothing it, she held it out for them to see. It was a handkerchief, with crooked black stitches forming G + H surrounded by a heart.

“I made this when I was thirteen, trying to learn how to sew - I didn’t make the handkerchief, just the stitchings on it. It hasn’t seen the light of day for years - I had to cast Scourgify on it before bringing it down - but, anyway. This is my gift to you, now that you’re a couple. Harry, I know you will, but just to be clear, you better treat George well.”  
“Oh, I will, don’t worry,” Harry said sincerely, and Ginny grinned.  
“I believe you.” She hugged George again and Harry as well, saying, “I love you both so much; this is the best news I’ve received in - oh! Can I tell Luna? She’ll be so happy too, and you won’t have to worry about her telling anyone you don’t want knowing; she’s very good at keeping secrets.”  
“Yeah, I’d love for Luna to know - is that alright with you, George?”  
“Definitely. And how ‘bout we tell Ron when he gets home for dinner - and maybe we could invite Lee and Angelina over as well?”  
Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands excitedly, declaring her intention to invite all the rest of the family who could come, they’d make a party of it, there was so much to do, and she was so happy she could just burst!  
Ginny pressed the handkerchief into Harry’s hands and pushed them out of the kitchen, saying, “Well, now that there’s to be a party in your honour, why don’t you make yourselves scarce until dinner - I’ll help Mum.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes, off you go. You can help clean up tomorrow.”  
“Thanks, Ginny,” they said gratefully, and returned to George's bedroom.

George flopped down on his bed and pulled Harry onto it to join him. The bed was just wide enough to fit both of them; they could expand it magically, of course, but then they wouldn’t have an excuse to be so close. Not that they needed one anymore.  
“That was really nice of Ginny to give us this,” Harry remarked, lying on his side facing George, examining the handkerchief.  
“Yeah, it was,” George agreed; he was actually quite touched by the gesture.  
“Words with g next to h, go.”  
“What?” George laughed.  
“Let’s try to think of words that have the letters g and h next to each other.”  
George tickled Harry briefly to stall for time and express his appreciation for this proposed game. There was a word which had haunted him before his conversation with Fred that now was a less persistent, less ominous question, relegated to the back of his mind, and he spoke it, giving it less power over him,  
“Ghost.”  
“Why is there a silent h there, anyway?”  
“Why is there a silent h in why? And what? And-”  
“When and where - oh, wherefore art thou spelt with unnecessary letters?”  
“Maybe they’re there to keep the other letters company and give commentary on the world for their amusement while they’re working hard.”  
“Flight.”  
“They’re both silent in that one!”  
“Mhmmmm,” Harry said, tracing his fingers teasingly over George’s chest. “Whatever could they be doing?”  
“Too busy playing to work.”  
“Maybe they just need a break.”  
“Might.”  
“Night.”  
“Both kinds.”  
“Right.”  
They both laughed.  
“Light.”  
“Laugh!”  
They laughed until they were out of breath.

“H-hey, Harry,” George giggled.  
“Yes, George?”  
“I’m gay.”  
“I’m bi.”  
George rested his head on Harry, listening and feeling for the beat of his heart. Harry’s chest vibrated as he said something else, and George lifted his head to ask, “What’d you say?”  
“I died.”  
George stared at Harry, half a smile frozen on his face, waiting with baited breath for Harry to continue.  
“I did. Ha. e. Another silent letter. Silent but deadly…I went to a, sort of in-between place. It looked like King’s Cross, but empty. I could wait there as long as I wanted, and then board a train, if I wanted to. To move on, into the unknown beyond death.”  
George’s breath was coming in short bursts and he choked out, “I - went to Hogwarts last week. Not to visit anyone - well…”  
“To visit memories,” Harry offered, and George smiled, closing his eyes.  
“Yes,” he breathed. “Exactly. I went into the forest, and you were right - the car is still there-”  
Harry made a delighted noise and George nodded, trying to work up to…“The car - ran over a - stone of some sort, and…Fred…he came…he - we talked. He said he was waiting for me, in an in-between place. He - told me he wants me to live a full life. I told him about us, that we’re dating. He said he’s happy.”  
“George!” Harry breathed. “That was the Resurrection Stone! Dumbledore left it to me in a snitch and I talked to my parents, and Lupin and Sirius with it. You didn’t keep it, did you?”  
“No. I left it where I found it.”  
Harry sighed in relief.  
“That’s good. I don’t think anyone should have it.”  
George nodded, tears pooling in his eyes.  
“I’m glad you got to talk with Fred, though. It was…very brave of you, to let him go.”  
The tears spilled over and George curled up into Harry who held him close.  
“I love you.”  
“I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 42nd birthday to Fred and George!
> 
> I realize that 'e' is not a silent letter in the word died, that it is working to make sure we pronounce the long rather than the short 'i' vowel, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to say that, in marking the difference between did and died, e is “silent but deadly”. Likewise 'g' and 'h' serve that purpose in light, flight, etc....it's just possible that I don't quite understand what exactly silent letters are. English is a wacky language, and contains far more words with the letters g and h juxtaposed than I had realized!
> 
> The title of this chapter is about the liminal space that George and Harry are occupying, particularly in the conversation they have in bed, but also more broadly, in this point in their lives. I love word play, and "Between the Lions" was one of my favorite shows as a kid...I enjoyed exploring the space between each breath of these two Gryffindors, and I hope you enjoyed coming along for the ride.


End file.
